Courtesy of Universal Pictures
Director Tate Taylor (The Help) plays with a nonlinear approach to telling Brown’s well-known story, which seems safe enough. Those who approach the film as an introduction to Brown may feel disoriented, particularly at first when Get On Up careens recklessly, like Brown himself doing the Mashed Potato. But it’s a welcome change of pace for those more familiar with Brown’s career.
The film traces his long career, which began when he joined Byrd’s band, the Gospel Starlights. The usual sequence of “rise to fame” scenes follows, as decades of hustle are relegated to crucial moments with little exposition: Federal Records demanding Brown demote his band, the Famous Flames, to little more than back-up singers; the death of his son Teddy; his movement from marriage to marriage, some of them never mentioned. There are entire gaps of his life unaddressed, like his late-’80s prison sentence, to make space towards the end of Get On Up for a moving scene between Brown and his estranged mother (Viola Davis, whose restrained desperation is one of the film’s best performances). “I left because I loved you,” she tells him, though the damage was done a long time ago. “James Brown don’t need no one,” he says, telling himself as much as her before breaking down in tears. Finally, some vulnerability to this extreme character.
Courtesy of Universal Pictures
As a portrait of the changing music industry (and popular culture at large), Get On Up sheds light on race relations in a way few biopics of the era have or likely will. This is confirmed by how much screen time Brown’s longtime manager Ben Bart (played by Dan Aykroyd) gets in the film, oftentimes during conversations in which the race records marketplace or payola are helpfully explained. Brown calms the black community in Boston following MLK’s assassination, delivering lines like, “Oh hell no, we in a honky hoedown” while wearing a bad Christmas sweater and essentially playing Frankie Avalon’s puppet. His childhood, meanwhile, included blind boxing matches among other blacks for the entertainment of rich white people. The film has its definite moments of racial real talk.
Get On Up represents the new high-level standard of biopics, but it’s not without its flaws. You feel for its creators: how do you fit a 50-year career into a couple of hours, and do you make it accessible to those unfamiliar with Brown beyond “Get Up Offa That Thing” and “It’s a Man’s, Man’s, Man’s World”? The forces behind Get On Up, which include Brian Grazer and Mick Jagger in executive producer roles, don’t skimp on what made James Brown the Godfather of Soul: performance after performance of see-it-to-believe-it devotion to the stage, the kind that turned entertainment into art.